Startled, I turned to look at the large, exotic rug Cei had hung as a backdrop behind us. Its colors were deep and rich, with a central panel of maroon holding a circle of silver stars. I was wondering where the Seneschal had found it when Pelli sprang forward, bellowing his challenge as he flung back the edge.
“Show yourself, skulking swine!”
There was a flurry of feathers and oaths as a pair of indignant owls glared down on the warrior.
“Oh, Pelli, it’s just the birds.” I laughed as much at Cei’s ingenuity as at Pelli’s bewilderment, and was glad when the older man roared good-naturedly as well. After Pelli moved away I surveyed the rug more closely, thinking of the bedroom, then turned to look at Arthur.
Rested and relaxed, he leaned back in his carved chair with the deceptive casualness of a seasoned warrior. I’d made him a new scarlet tunic, and the torchlight winked and glimmered on its embroidered trim. Where the sleeves fell back, a king’s ransom of golden armbands could be seen reaching all the way up to his elbows, and the official Ring of State graced his hand. In the flickering light the gold-and-garnet dragon seemed to coil around his finger, rich and powerful. Altogether he was a man who wore his kinghood well, and I thought again how lucky I was.
Once the Hall was full the trumpeter coaxed a cascade of notes from his battered horn and a blaze of color whirled into the empty space within the Round Table’s heart. I stared at the gyrating figure in mystification, not recognizing the acrobat who had joined our wedding party last year.
“Dagonet came on the campaign,” Arthur whispered, leaning over to me. “Did well enough as a foot soldier, but it was his lighthearted antics around the campfire that proved most useful. He’s so good at jesting, Gawain dubbed him the Royal Fool.”
“Your Highnesses,” Dagonet called out, bowing low before us. “May I conduct this feast for you, since the Wizard is off dallying with his lovely spellbinder elsewhere?”
The jester wove a dance of the Companions’ recent exploits—miming a swaggering warrior one moment and the dying enemy the next. As the ever-important smith he repaired a bent sword with such gusto he managed to smash his thumb against the imaginary anvil, and even parodied the High King leading the cavalry against the foe, finishing up with a triumphal return to Silchester.
“And all,” he cried in conclusion, “all that for the Cause—a prosperous Britain, loyal to King Arthur and safe from the threat of invasion.”
I joined in the laughter and clapping when Dagonet took his bow, thinking that a jester could be very handy in reminding the people what we were trying to do.
“And now, my fellow heroes and buffoons,” the Fool announced, “’tis time to pay our respect to Their Highnesses and receive the gifts of treasure due every proud warrior, that it may truly be said that Arthur is the most generous of Kings.”
First among the heroes was Gawain. As Dagonet recounted his confrontation with the Irish champion, the Hall filled with applause—the Prince of Orkney may not have bested Marhaus, but he basked in the glory of having fought him to a standstill. When Arthur slid the thickest of the gold bracelets over his hand, Gawain grinned up at us, the impish nature of the boy I’d known in childhood still beaming from his face.
To Cei went an ornate inlaid bracelet, for the Seneschal loved elegance, no matter how old or battered. And a fine golden torque was laid aside for Bedivere, who had given his hand in the service of his King—though the lieutenant was too badly wounded to attend the ceremony, all witnessed how deeply Arthur cared.
So the men came forward to receive their due, to bend the knee, to thank us in their individual ways. Pellinore and Lamorak; Griflet and Geraint and Cador of Cornwall; Palomides and the skinny lad, Pelleas-—the names spun out, the rewards were given.
I gasped when Dagonet announced Accolon of Gaul. This was the young warrior who had come to serve Arthur and been seduced by Morgan le Fey instead. Memory of my sister-in-law’s anger danced around me—raging little wildcat, hissing and screaming at me in fury. As Accolon approached I wondered whether his presence meant the Lady had gotten over her pique, or that his desire for a warrior’s glory was stronger than his love for her.
Bors of Brittany came next, bounding across the space before us and asking leave to present his cousin Lancelot.
I leaned forward, eager to meet the Champion who had been raised at the Sanctuary.
The torches guttered suddenly, and I blinked in consternation; it was Kevin, the first love of my youth, who moved forward and knelt in homage.
Stunned, I stared at the dark head before me. My heart was pounding in my ears and I began to breathe again only after Arthur spoke and the stranger looked up.
This Lancelot had the same triangular face as Kevin, with a broad brow and blue eyes set wide under a shock of black hair. But there the similarity ended, for the newcomer had too many teeth—they gave his mouth a full and sensual look quite unlike Kevin’s. And, of course, he wasn’t lame as the Irish boy had been.
I glanced down and saw that my knuckles were white from clinging to the arms of the chair.
“My dear,” Arthur said warmly, “this is the warrior I told you about; the one who saved Bedivere’s life. Lancelot, my Queen, Guinevere.”
The hero turned stiffly in my direction, his manner polite but constrained. I smiled, as much from relief as pleasure at meeting him, and waited unsuccessfully for him to smile back.
“Your Highness,” he murmured in acknowledgment, but stared right through me the same way the stuffy Christian bishops do. His attitude surprised me, for I am friend as well as Queen to most of the men and used to being treated as such.
“We are much indebted to both your families,” Arthur was saying, including Bors in his announcement. “You have always come to our aid when we needed you. So as a token of our appreciation, I give you each a purse of gold coins.”
A gasp went through the rest of the Companions—coins have not been seen in Britain for many years now, and the idea of any warrior receiving such a gift was amazing. Clearly it was a mark of the highest esteem, and I hoped it would make our visitor from Brittany unbend a little.
“I did not come to fight beside you for pay, M’lord,” Lancelot said, looking at the proffered pouch as though it were something loathsome.
“Of course you didn’t,” Arthur answered genially. “I know that very well. But even King Ban’s son must incur expenses, and I cannot believe that your father would be any less generous to a warrior who served him as well as you’ve served me.”
The stranger continued to hesitate, and Arthur made a show of leaning forward and plopping the bag of money in his hand.
“For goodness’ sake, Lance, take the stuff,” he urged under his breath. “It’s not going to corrupt your commitment, and it will show the others how much I value you.”
A sudden smile of comprehension swept over the dark features—its bright flash reminding me again of Kevin—and he nodded gratefully.
“May I strive to be worthy of your trust always,” he responded, his voice now rich with life and enthusiasm.
For a moment I thought he would include me in the dazzle of his pleasure, but he rose and turned away without even glancing in my direction. Stung, I stared after him, wondering what sort of manners the Lady had taught at the Sanctuary.
Dagonet was calling Agricola to the fore, and the patrician King of Demetia’s glad recognition of my presence made up for the rudeness of King Ban’s son. Perhaps, I told myself, the Breton feels shy and ill at ease so far from home.
At the end of the presentations I signaled the servants to bring forth the first of the venison, accompanied by the tuneful lilt of elder pipes and the rumble of a hand drum. A procession of platters was paraded solemnly around the inner circle of the Round Table, each laden with meat or fowl or fruit. All were met with boisterous cheers and exclamations of pleasure, for next to fig
hting, warriors love feasting best.
After dinner, when Riderich the Bard was tuning his harp, one of the children came pelting across the Hall, the wine in his serving flagon slopping from side to side.
“Whatever are you doing!” Cei cried, horrified at seeing his precious hoard treated so carelessly.
“There’s a stranger demanding admission of Lucan the Gate Keeper,” the boy shot back. “But the fellow won’t leave his weapons outside. He’s got a Pictish name and claims he must see the High King immediately.”
“Tristan?” Arthur prompted, motioning the lad to approach.
“Maybe.” The child scowled uncertainly as Arthur relieved him of the half-empty pitcher and handed it to me. “He’s a real tall man, and there’s blood all over his shield.”
“Tristan,” Arthur affirmed, glad that the lanky warrior from Cornwall was whole and alive, for his was the last of the war-bands not accounted for and we’d begun to worry. Giving the boy a pat, Arthur sent him back with the message that the stranger could come in.
It was indeed King Mark’s nephew and he had his cohort Dinadan with him. The two men strode into the Hall side by side, Tristan all arms and legs while the smaller, wiry chap trotted along next to him. Many made fun of these Cornish knights because they looked so like a rangy wolfhound and sleek terrier making their rounds together, but I grinned and rose to give them a royal welcome.
Tristan’s shield was smeared with the blood of a recent engagement, and his head bore a hasty bandage. A bright red stain was seeping through the linen wrappings on his arm. Yet in spite of this the warrior was in high spirits.
“I bring word of the Irish Champion, Marhaus,” he called out gaily. “Thought you’d like to know I sent his head back to his family in a small, wooden box.”
A roar of amazement rose from the Companions.
“Took him on in single combat,” Tristan went on while Dinadan bowed formally to Arthur and me and tugged at his friend’s sleeve until the other warrior followed suit.
“It must have been quite a battle,” Arthur noted wryly as Tristan made a cursory bow.
“Oh, it was. Hardest fight of my life…so far.”
Tris’s boyish charm and confidence was infectious and he moved to the center of the gathering, eager to give a full account of the fight.
Whatever other differences his Pictish father had passed on to his son, modesty was not among them. He reeled from point to point in his story, encouraged by a crowd that proffered full goblets and drinking horns at every opportunity. By the time he came to the decapitation, the audience was wild with cheering; it was a virtuoso performance that touched the heart of all the Companions.
All, that is, except Gawain.
When the applause began to fade, the redhead from Orkney leaned forward and called out loudly, “You say you sent Marhaus’s head back to Ireland?”
Tristan blinked in surprise and gave a puzzled nod.
“In whose name did you kill him?” Gawain demanded.
“Why, in Arthur’s, of course.” Tris shook his head slowly. “My uncle let me fight for the High King this year to make up for past absences…I’ve been Arthur’s man this whole summer. You know that, Gawain.”
“Marhaus was brother to the Irish Queen,” Gawain said pointedly, turning to address the now silent Hall. “Well placed and highly thought of, he might have gained the throne someday. Won’t they now look to Arthur for vengeance?”
“Well, I don’t know…maybe, I suppose,” Tristan stammered. Clearly he was not used to considering the consequences of his actions and he turned to Arthur uncertainly. “I did do the right thing, didn’t I?”
The High King smiled and nodded gravely. “Of course you did, Tris, and you’ve won our admiration by this display of strength and courage. Marhaus was the finest warrior in Ireland, and an honorable man besides.” Arthur paused and looked firmly at Gawain. “I do not think anyone could mistake a life lost in fair combat for a murderous attack which would call for vengeance.”
I glanced quickly at the redhead. It was my friend Pellinore who had killed King Lot in the Great Battle, and though Gawain had sworn fealty to Arthur, he harbored a son’s hatred for his father’s slayer. From time to time Arthur had to remind his nephew that blood-feuds would not be tolerated among the Companions.
Gawain took the message sullenly but left off baiting Tristan, and Arthur went on as though nothing had happened, inviting the two men from Cornwall to stay with us over the winter. Dagonet led them to a pair of empty seats behind the circle of the Round Table while Riderich picked up his harp and turned our attention to the ancient, well-loved stories of prowess and glory.
Looking around the gathering, I thought how much it had grown since that first meeting just last spring. The camaraderie was much the same, the pride and pleasure of men who had fought side by side and were alive to tell the tales. Whether they had come because of Merlin’s promise or Arthur’s growing reputation as a leader, they were here in all their diversity. Well known and recently met, I scanned their faces and wondered how we would all fit together.
My eyes lingered an extra moment on the dark features of Lancelot, and he looked up, startled, as though I had touched him. He met my gaze briefly, then abruptly looked away.
***
Whatever the Breton might bring to the Round Table, I didn’t think I’d like it.
Chapter V
The Lieutenant
No one had been sure, back when Arthur first proposed it, whether mounting our warriors on horseback was a good idea. But in two years the Companions had developed into light, fast-moving cavalry units that were immensely effective against the raid-and-run tactics of our enemies. By now they had honed their skills in the field and were glad of the chance to show off before the townspeople. So everyone in Silchester gathered at the amphitheater on the second day of the celebration—no doubt it was the biggest crowd since the days of Roman circuses.
Lancelot gave a dazzling display of horsemanship and when he was finished he came to join us, sitting down next to Arthur without waiting for an invitation. I complimented him on his riding and received a cold, haughty nod in response before he rested his chin on his hand and commenced studying the activity below.
After a bit he turned to Arthur. “Might be a good idea to hold tournaments of this sort on a regular basis—use them to keep the men and horses in trim over the winter.”
Arthur was immediately intrigued and I turned away, furious that this stranger who snubbed me should feel free to counsel my husband like an equal.
“You’d think he was Arthur’s lieutenant, the way he’s moved into Bedivere’s place!” I fumed as Brigit combed out my hair before dinner.
“Perhaps that’s as it should be,” the Irish girl answered, twisting a sidelock into a wave and pinning it to the mass on the top of my head.
“How can you say that? Bedivere’s always been Arthur’s right-hand man.”
“And now Bedivere himself doesn’t have a hand.”
“But you said he’d get well!” I rounded on her in dismay.
“He probably won’t die, if we can keep gangrene from setting in,” she said slowly. “But he’s had a close call. He won’t be active again for some time, and Arthur needs a lieutenant now.”
Brigit nudged me back around. My hair is my best feature, being thick and red-gold in color, and Brigit spent hours keeping it looking nice. Years ago both she and her cousin Kevin had been given to my father as peace hostages by an Irish family immigrating to Rheged. We’d grown up as fosterlings, and I’d come to rely on her wisdom and calmness as time went by. So I mulled over her words while she went on with the coiffure.
Bedivere had been my first and closest friend when I came to Court, just as he had been Arthur’s. They’d worked as a team since they were children at Sir Ector’s court—Arthur thought up the ideas, and Bedi
vere made them happen. When I married Arthur they simply included me as a natural third. The three of us spent innumerable hours together, riding out to check horse pastures, exploring ancient hill-forts or lounging around the fire on rainy days, playing draughts and talking about projects that would help the Cause. It never occurred to me it wouldn’t always be that way.
Now I was faced with the galling prospect of Arthur having a lieutenant who excluded me so thoroughly I might as well not exist.
“Give this Lancelot a chance,” Brigit advised, putting Mama’s gold fillet on top of my head. “He’ll no doubt bring a fresh eye to things, and while it’s bound to be different, it may not be all bad.”
I grimaced as she handed me the mirror and she burst out laughing.
“Whatever would I do without you?” I grinned.
“Probably get into no end of trouble,” she quipped.
Next morning I went to the infirmary, hoping to find Bedivere awake. His craggy features were sunken and drawn, and his eyelids barely fluttered when I sat down on the stool beside his cot. All the fire and color had drained from him, as though lost in the torrent of blood that had gushed from his wound. From the sweet smell of the poppy I guessed he was sedated, so I made a prayer to the Goddess for him and quietly tiptoed out.
It was clear that Bedivere would be convalescing for some time. I swallowed hard and reminded myself that Arthur needed a working lieutenant and it didn’t matter whether I liked him or not.
***
In the days that followed I ran into Lancelot everywhere—in the Council Chamber, crossing the stableyard, pausing to note particular plants in my garden—his presence was unavoidable. He moved like a cat and proved to be superb with a blade, and I was sorely tempted to ask if he’d learned his technique at the Sanctuary; it was said that in the Old Days the Morrigan, great Goddess of bloodlust and death, had Herself taught heroes the art of war at such a school in the heart of Britain. But Lancelot made such a point of ignoring me, I had no choice but to treat him with equal coldness and keep my questions to myself.
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